


Too Easy

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Angst, Community: sherlockkink, Double Penetration, Drugged Sex, M/M, Non Consensual Bloodplay, PWP, Painplay, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-21
Updated: 2010-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackwood acquires Holmes and Watson, and decides to entertain himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Easy

**Author's Note:**

> For this kink meme prompt: _Blackwood/Holmes/Watson abduction and coerced double penetration with victim/bottom!Holmes and helpless!Watson._  
> Also, this was my first fic ever…

Watson was the second to wake. Holmes is already alert and deducting, Irene is still unconscious, and his head hurts and his legs hurts and his arm… he hurts all over. He shifts and is brought up short by the pull of coarse rope. Tied to a chair – Holmes too. Irene as well.

"Watson," Holmes hisses.

He blinks at Holmes, his mouth dry, and his head spinning, unable to focus, unable to turn sounds into words. Concussion, he thinks. Holmes is staring at him intently. Probably trying to convey some insane plan through telepathy. Why were they chained to chairs? He couldn't remember.

"Watson," Holmes hisses again, lower and more intensely.

A footfall behind him makes him wrench his head around, only to regret it moments later. Not merely because of the nausea and spinning that accompanies it, though reason enough, but for the sight that appears.

Blackwood. Most definitely alive.

 

Blackwood watches for a long, breathless moment. Watson waits for Holmes to say something rash and ultimately enlightening, and is almost grateful when he's silent.

"I can't kill you," Blackwood announces. "But nor can I allow you to continue to interfere in my plans until a later point. Therefore, I shall simply have to keep you… occupied for the time being."

"Occupy us?" Holmes drawls, every inch the bohemian wasting away of ennui. "How could you possibly occupy my mind for any length of time?"

Blackwood's lips turn up at the edges. Watson can't call his expression a smile, but it lurks on the edge of amusement. This bodes well for no one.

"If I cannot occupy you, you shall simply have to occupy yourselves, and I see no reason not to allow such amusements to serve a higher purpose." He rises, and the scrape of metal draws Watson's attention to the long knife Blackwood lazily slides from the table. It is covered with symbols; meaningless to him, a tome of data for Holmes.

Blackwood stalks to him and slides the blade beneath his chin, raising his head to stare into his eyes. Watson is mesmerized, caught in a gaze as intense as a striking cobra. Without glancing away, hBlackwood directs his comments to Holmes. "Who shall it be, Holmes? The loyal doctor?" and slides the warming metal along the plane of Watson's jaw, smooth and seductive. Watson's breath catches, and at that moment, Blackwood twists the knife, sharpened edge opening a wound where the flat caressed moments ago. Watson can't help a small hitch of breath at the sudden sting, and next to him Holmes has tensed with fury.

"Again?" Blackwood whispers, as though for his ears alone, and Homes snaps out a terse no.

Blackwood breaks his gaze, turning to Holmes. "No? Well then," and brushes past Holmes to crouch before Irene, bloodied blade popping off a button, then another, before either Watson or Holmes can react. Watson's reply is a snarl, and Holmes' an inarticulate demand for her release.

"One or the other, Holmes," Blackwood hisses as he returns to stand before Holmes. "Choose, or I will use both against you." Holmes is silent, and Blackwood laughs as he leans toward him, lowering his mouth to brush Holmes' ear as he drops fragments of data into his mind. Holmes stiffens again at some comment and, eyes narrowing, spits out his choice.

"Let her go." He knows her limits as compared to Watson's, and knows who he trusts more.

Blackwood turns to Irene, still unconscious, and backhands her across the face. Holmes jerks, chair legs screeching across the floor, and Irene snaps conscious, dazed, cheek blazing.

"Can you swim?" Blackwood asks her, low, commanding. She stares at him, lips parted, language not yet registering. He backhands her again, casually, and repeats. "Can you swim?"

"Yes," she whispers, her lip bloodied

He smiles. "Good," and gestures forward two men standing aside. "Dump her in the river."

Holmes snarls. "You said you would let her go."

Blackwood raises an eyebrow. "So I did. And so I am. Tell me doctor, can you swim?"

Watson reluctantly shakes his head. Blackwood turns his gaze back to Holmes. "Then be glad you chose her." Irene is half escorted, half dragged from the room, just beginning to fight. The door closes behind them and Blackwood returns his attention to his remaining victims.

 

Watson gathers his wits long enough to demand to know what Blackwood intends to do to them and is answered by silence. Blackwood is busy watching Holmes, who is busy thinking, and suddenly Blackwood smiles with a low laugh; "Too easy," he says. Holmes head snaps up at that, and Blackwood turns to the table to pick something up, something long and thin and recognizable, and how did Blackwood get his cane is Watson's last coherent thought before he sees it rise and is struck blind and dumb by a blow to the head from once faithful wood and metal.

His head is ringing, and there are spots in his vision. The blow has split the skin of his forehead; he can feel the tickle of blood running down the bridge of his nose. Concussion upon concussion, he thinks wearily. If I survive this, will I have anything left in my head? Holmes is shouting at Blackwood to stop, but the cane is rising again; he turns his head to catch it on his cheek.

When his eyes flutter open, the left is gummed shut with something; he assumes blood, and he wouldn't be surprised if his cheekbone is fractured. His gaze, if fuzzy, is focused on the floor, and something at the edge of his vision draws his attention at the same time he feels metal on his throat. Blackwood's vicious knife again. Watson's head comes up; he winces at the movement, the room is spinning far too fast, but the kaleidoscope is still for long enough for him to identify Holmes kneeling before him, face flushed, stripped to the flesh, then stripped again by lines of blood. His hands are still tied behind him, connected to another rope around his ankles. He is watching Watson with wide, liquid eyes, drops tracking down his face. Watson is amazed; he's never seen Holmes cry, cannot conceive of it, even with evidence before him. His attention is drawn elsewhere as a low hiss warms his ear. Blackwood is behind him, holding the knife to his throat, lips brushing his ear with every word.

"Look at him," he whispers. "As elegant as sin, even brought low. You're about to get lucky, Watson. I'm sure a mouth as talented with words as this one can prove itself equally talented in other areas." Holmes shudders and leans forward a few inches to rest his cheek against Watson's thigh. Watson blinks at the sensation of flesh on flesh, and realizes for the first time the he's been stripped of his trousers.

"Well Holmes," the voice says, louder. "Prove yourself willing." Holmes draws a breath and slides forward until his mouth is resting against Watson's prick. Holmes breathes in out, in out, breath hot and humid against the skin of Watson's cock, before he turns into it and presses his lips along its length, slow, open, wet kisses.

Watson cannot help himself; he gasps, though whether it is in pleasure, shock, or something else altogether, he cannot say. Holmes' eyes flick up to his, and back down as quickly, his tongue sliding out to trace the dark veins.

Blackwood hisses in his ear again. "Looking at him, you'd almost think he enjoys it, yes? Don't deny yourself, doctor. I've no doubt you've thought of this before, seen him before you, servicing you, sucking you off when you close your eyes."

Watson has never hated his body more than now, his cock rising, flushed and leaking, at the suggestions Blackwood is pouring into his ear. Because, damn it, he can't deny it. Visions of Holmes before him, of wickedly talented fingers, of flushed cheeks and swollen lips, of raspy voices and tousled hair had featured in the dark, when his hands were a substitute for a willing partner. If it wasn't for Blackwood's voice, he could close his eyes and be back at Baker Street, a vision no different than those that came in his bed at night.

But he wouldn't, he couldn't, couldn't do that to Holmes. Couldn't make Holmes the one to bear all humiliations. His eyes would remain open, drinking in every detail of finally getting what he wanted, and having it be, in every possible way, wrong to the core.

 

His cock is swollen and aching now, Holmes' lips now wrapped around him, his precarious balance shifting to push him deeper onto Watson's cock until he chokes, the leaking head lodging against the back of his throat. Watson's breath hitches in his throat, hesitating on the edge of a moan, hips beginning to rock forward against his every wish. Blackwood presses his mouth to the thin skin behind Watson's ear, teeth scraping as he sucks the skin to a red bloom. The knife tightens against his throat, and his gasps become ones of pain as the blade bites and blood begins to flow.

Blackwood's mouth separates from his skin with a final nip and he hisses "Stop," to Holmes, who freezes, Watson's cock distorting the line of his cheek. "Pull back," the voice commands, and Watson can only watch as Holmes leans back, leans too far and falls over, legs and arms trapped beneath him as he arches up to relieve the pain. Instantly, Blackwood is gone, the knife with him, and Watson closes his eyes. He cannot look, cannot think. Holmes before him, Holmes touching him. He is filled with disgust at his actions, at his lack of actions, at his very thoughts.

A footstep, and his eyes start open to see Blackwood, syringe in hand, sink down to straddle Holmes on his knees, pressing him down against the arms trapped behind him, ignoring Holmes' thrashing, whispers "Hush," as he places his hand on Holmes' neck, baring down until Holmes is twisting and gasping for breath. He slides the needle into the exposed neck, injecting as Holmes shudders all over, watching avidly until he pulls the needle out, only to press forward to place an open mouthed, biting kiss over the small drop of blood marking the entry of some unknown drug. The syringe rolls across the floor unheeded as Blackwood's hand opens to splay trembling against the floor. Holmes is panting, his mouth swollen and red, and Watson is shouting at Blackwood, shouting at Holmes, twisting in his bindings.

Blackwood pulls back, two crescents of blood marking his deed, and hisses, "A little something to make you more pliant," standing to return to his table, stooping to pick up the syringe.

Holmes' pupils are blown so wide Watson thinks he can't be able to see at all, and his breath is coming in short, fast pants. "Holmes," he says, "Holmes, what was it, Holmes, can you here me? Holmes, Holmes, Holmes," and Holmes is saying nothing, is doing nothing, is becoming more nothing with every passing second.

Blackwood is watching him with some amusement as he prepares another syringe. He flicks it, nail ringing on glass, and the familiar sound draws Watson's eye. With a sidelong glance, Blackwood tells him "This will stop the reaction to the drug currently in his system. What will you do for it, I wonder?"

"Anything," Watson replies, without hesitation.

"Anything?" Blackwood repeats, eyebrow arched.

"Anything," Watson repeats, eyes no longer on Blackwood at all, but on Holmes, Holmes, Holmes.

Blackwood sets the syringe down. "Let's test that, shall we?"

 

He seizes Holmes' arm, dragging him upright. Holmes' legs are useless, but Blackwood simply picks him up and deposits him on the bed. Holmes lays on the rich coverlet, a pale arrangement of bones, unmoving, terrifying in his stillness. Watson has never seen him so motionless. Blackwood moves before his chair and releases his legs. It doesn't help – his thigh is so cramped from sitting that it will be a wonder if he can even stand, but he has to try; before he can gather his breath for an attempt, Blackwood is kneeling atop his thighs, straddling him in the chair, weight pinning him down as he yanks Watson's head up.

"Remember, doctor," he hisses, "Cooperate, and you might both survive. Attempt to escape, and I will show Holmes just how much pain the human body can withstand." His hand slides around behind the chair, knife making quick work of the rope binding Watson's hands.

"A fair trade, don't you think? After all, we're both getting something we want." As warm as his breath is, as warm as his body is, Blackwood's words are cold as the Thames in December.

Watson licks his lips, and Blackwood's eyes follow the motion. "What…" he manages to croak out before Blackwood's lips are on his, punishing, all teeth and tongue, a violation of nature. He lets his mouth be opened, passive, and Blackwood is still devouring him, and he can't breathe, and his ears are ringing…

Blackwood backs off just as his vision begins to grey, and his head falls back, gasping, his vision a swimming canvas of bright dots. Before he can recover, Blackwood has hauled him to his feet and shoved him towards the bed. He manages a few stumbling steps before falling, catching himself on the edge of the bed. Holmes is lying unmoving, only the rise and fall of his chest and the rapid flick of his eyes indicating he still lives.

Blackwood's arm slides around Watson's ribs and hauls him backwards to rest against his chest. Watson stiffens, and a slick hand is sliding around his still half hard cock, stroking it. He will not be aroused by this, he refuses; but his body commits another betrayal and soon he is writhing in Blackwood's hold, hands fisted in the coverlet, head thrown back against his shoulder, eyes lidded but staring up at the canopy. He won't close them, not even now.

Blackwood slides more oil onto his cock and releases him with a push. "Go," he says. "Open him up for me." Watson freezes, presented with the sight of a limp Holmes once more. He cannot mean… but the shove towards Holmes is an unmistakable command, and Watson crawls to his body.

Holmes' eyes flit this way and that, and Watson brings both hands up to cradle his face, hoping and equally fearing to catch his attention. Holmes' eyes continue to follow things only he can see, and Watson gives in to the temptation to press his lips against Holmes' chilled, unresponsive ones.

It is nothing like he imagined, but that does not make it entirely unpleasurable either.

 

He slides over Holmes' limp body, and collects a long thigh in each hand. They press against Holmes' chest too easily, exposing his puckered opening to violation. Watson fears to press in without some easing of the way; Blackwood's oil may make it possible, but possible does not equal medically safe in this realm. A hand upon him, splaying across the white scar of his shoulder makes him shudder, and Blackwood's voice is low in his ear. "Take him as he is," he commands, and Watson does.

Holmes is tight and hot and unbearably beautiful. Watson wishes with all his heart that this could have happened another way, any other way, because Holmes will hate him forever if they survive, and he will lose everything he might have had, and so he will take what can from this moment. Although Holmes' body is unresisting, his eyes still flitting, his mouth makes a sound Watson could all too easily categorize as pain. His hands flutter, moving like spiders across the coverlet before falling still once more. Watson is buried deep inside Holmes, and bows his head to rest it against one boney shoulder, panting into the cool skin.

The bed dips and Watson turns his head against Holmes' shoulder, ear coming to rest above his heart, the thruming blood oddly reassuring. Blackwood is kneeling beside Holmes, and gestures for Watson to shift. Watson rolls to his side, pulling Holmes with his, tight in his embrace. Holmes is utterly limp against him, a flesh bag of bones and arteries and atrophying muscles, and Blackwood looms over his shoulder. "Withdraw," he husks, and Watson rolls his hips, his cock sliding out of Holmes with a sound like flesh releasing a bullet. Blackwood doesn't move Holmes; he simply shoves into him in one stroke, pressing Holmes down on Watson, Holmes' breath catching momentarily.

Blackwood slides in and out, smooth, controlled, and begins to murmur an invocation in Latin. His hand slides from the sheets to Watson's chest, and his skin flinches at the cold of metal. Blackwood's knife rides the planes of his hips, the crease of his sternum, turning and twisting to draw blood here but not there, and Blackwood breaks off the chant long enough to withdraw and pass Holmes back into Watson's keeping.

He allows Watson to slide within Holmes only once before he is there as well, cock sliding against Watson's as he presses into Holmes alongside. Watson is rigid with fear; above him, Holmes is responding, body tightening, eyes widening, hands sliding up to dig into Watson's chest. Watson can barely breathe; he wants this to be over, he wants this to never stop, he hopes he stops breathing in the next few moments and never starts again.

Blackwood is fully inside Holmes now, lying alongside Watson, so tight, too tight, and Watson can only imagine how they are tearing Holmes up. Blackwood moves, slowly, smoothly, chanting, knife moving, and Watson grits his teeth against the sensation. Blackwood's thrust grow sharper, shorter, but his words never falter, even as the knife stops twisting to rest trapped between fabric and Blackwood's palm, and Watson can see the metallic gleam. Blackwood is arching now, is gasping now, is shuddering, and Holmes is shaking to pieces between them, and Blackwood's eyes close in orgasm. Watson's hand comes up with a flash of silver, and Blackwood's eyes are wide and shocked as his life pumps out of severed arteries and veins, blood sticky and dark against Holmes' skin; Holmes' eyes focus on Watson as he feels the slide of dampness down his back, and he smiles.


End file.
